I made the fucking phone call.
The one to Dexcom to get the new sensors. They should be here soon. Early next week, between Monday and Wednesday.
And it only took me like three weeks to work up the nerve!
Of course, it was no big deal. Eventually.
See, I called the tech support number yesterday, and talked to a tech support lady with an unplacable Midwestern accent (Tennessee?) and started setting up an account when she suddenly said, “Wait… are you CANADIAN?”.
And there was more than a hint of accusation in her voice.
Like I was being Canadian on purpose. Just to bug her.
She then transferred me to the Canadian help line. I think. Because what actually happened was that there was a brief dial tone [1], the sound of like a dozen touch tone buttons being dialed at warp speed, some silence, then a click and Muzak. [2]
Hold music hasn’t changed, I guess. It was your usual gently strummed guitar and slow soft strings. Not exactly exciting, but pleasant and soothing.
After about ten minutes of soft jazz sedation. a click and then a too-fast busy signal.
OK, you win this round. I looked up the number for the CANADIAN line and save it in my notes and called it a day.
Oh, one last thing about call #1….they had this phone system where to select an option from the phone menu you repeat the word for it when you hear it.
Man did that make me feel like a goober.
Can you say sensors? Good!
Called back today. Everything went fine. There was, of course, no reason for me to have dreaded it. More of the exact same Muzak (weird), talk to a lady with an unplaceable Ontario accent (Barrie?), set up an account, she’s sending me the news sensors (that better fucking work!), it is done.
She asked if I wanted them sent Fed Ex or Canada Post and I said Fed Ex out of some very unclear sense that Fed Ex would be quicker.
But now I wish I said Canada Post. Because I am way less likely to get the whole “oh gee, we knocked (liar!) and you weren’t home so now you have to come to us ha ha” bullshit if you stick with the people who actually have keys to your building.
Oh well. If we end up having to drive to like Anacis Island to get the package they “delivered” out of some dingy “depot” attached to a brick warehouse, I will learn from it.
Next time it’s CanPo all the way!
More after the break.
The baby left to cry
Whatever happens to the baby left to cry?
Does it take a lot of damage? Does it ever wonder why?
Why it screamed and cried until it wept its tear ducts dry?
Till it gave up, small, defeated, salt encrusted in its eyes?
Whatever happens to the baby left to cry?
Whatever happens to the baby left to cry?
Does it know help isn’t coming? Does it learn, too young, of lies?
Does it know it’s been left helpless by those who will not heed its cries?
Does it know it’s been abandoned? Does that come as a surprise?
Whatever happens to the baby left to cry?
Whatever happens to the baby left to cry?
What about that selfish family? Would they notice if it died?
Or would they only feel relief when that awful noise subsides?
And grin in selfish triumph over the bladder of a child?
Whatever happens to the baby left to cry?
Whatever happens to the baby left to cry?
Does it give up on survival? Does it withdraw deep inside?
Does it learn that this world hates it? Does it give up all its pride?
Does it fall forever silent? Does its life ebb like the tide?
Whatever happens to the baby left to cry?
Whatever happens to the baby left to cry?
I guess it dies.
Sorry folks. Sometimes I just have to write the super depressing sad stuff.
The baby in the poem is me, obviously.
I can’t know for sure, but I think this literally happened to me. I remember calling my mother to my crib because I had discovered a resonance between the feel of my finger rubbing the tag on my blanket and the feel of rubbing my tongue against my palate.
I obviously could not explain this. So she just sighed heavily and left.
And then, I think that bitch gave up on me.
Decided that my cries were all bullshit like that and stopped responding to them.
And if she didn’t, nobody else was going to do it. After all, I wasn’t THEIR responsibility and they had their own stuff to do.
Beside, my mother had no choice. I was in danger of developing hope, and hope in children can be really irritating.
And she was tired. So tired. So worn down and defeated. So mentally drained. Made it so very easy to just forget about me.
What a relief that must have been! No more worrying about that stupid kid she never even wanted who was the last thing she needed when she was already near collapses working a full time job, being a full time housewife, and raising the three kids she WANTED to have.
And the best part is that she never had to consciously decide to abandon me.
She just had to forget all about me.
And boy, did she ever. So did everyone else. Till I was old enough to go to school, the only one who really paid attention to me was my babysitter Betty.
Well, people often pay others to do jobs they find too odious and tedious to do themselves. Like caring for me.
Then school came and a cheer went up because now they could pay even less attention to me and didn’t even have to pay a babysitter any more!
So I did everything by myself except make my own lunch.
She gave up on doing that too. So I just stopped eating lunch.
Everyone was super OK with just assuming I was fine or whatever.
And that’s how I learned that I did not even deserve to live.
That’s what I deserved for choosing to be an accident.
My problems go back much further than the rape.
I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.
[[1]] Holy crap! Kids today will have never heard a dial tone. Or a busy signal. Or a touch tone phone tone. Holy fuck I’m old. Hand me my walker or I’ll whup ya![1]]